Orange Venom
by Dominick Disaster
Summary: Chris and Wesker eat breakfast together. Not slash, just crack.


**Title:** Orange Venom  
**Series/Disclaimer:** Resident Evil, which I don't own.  
**Pairing/Characters:** Albert Wesker, Chris Redfield  
**Warnings:** Some minor swearing.  
**Summery:** Chris and Wesker having breakfast.

**Author's Note:** I've never been so happy to finish something.

_**Ever.**_

_**--------  
**_

The truth was, there were only two ways to handle mornings: with the sort of obnoxiously sunny personality that inevitably labeled one a "morning person" or, more typically, with the grumbling attempt at indifference that usually lead to stubbing a toe (or two) or spilling coffee (on yourself). People really only came in those settings, assuming of course that they were human to begin with. Animals and viral-enhanced super-villains were prone to different behavior. Which Chris had noticed after the first time he woke up to Wesker sitting, fully clothed, at eight AM, at his kitchen table. Clearly he was ready to take on the day but the man didn't even have anywhere to _be_, which was evident by the fact he was just reading the paper and casually running one finger along the top rim of a half-full ceramic mug.

There really was no way to get used to seeing his worst enemy sitting in his kitchen at any hour of the day. Let alone _eight _in the morning. An even bigger mind fuck was when he woke up to that after a nightmare _involving_ Wesker a couple times. Of course, it wouldn't be a proper nightmare if the blonde hadn't been trying to kill him so when he first headed into his kitchen he was almost ready to jump him. His fingers had even twitched, as though he had a sidearm he could reach for, and he'd fallen completely silent to gain a completely pointless advantage. An advantage that wasn't there because, and it took him a couple of minutes for it to set in, if Wesker had really wanted to kill him, he would have put the paper _down _instead of turning the page.

It still happened occasionally, but after a month of living together and a years worth of snide remarks about his behavior, Chris had learned to treat Wesker's presence with a sort of normalcy. The task was by no means _easy_, but it enabled him to shuffle over to the cupboard to start searching his kitchen without feeling completely ridiculous in his handgun print pajama bottoms.

Wesker didn't even look _up _half the time so the routine was fairly normal and Chris could just treat him like a chair that liked to talk every once in a while. Go in, make his breakfast, pour his juice, eat, then shower. The first couple of times he had made awkward attempts at offering Wesker something, but the man always refused. At one point, after a night of little to no sleep, Chris had snapped at him for never eating. That it was weird to sit at the breakfast table with someone that didn't even pretend to eat and moved so quietly that it was impossible to tell when he'd finished his _coffee_.

It had lead to a very long, in-depth explanation about the rather disgusting conditions chickens were raised in that the agent would have preferred not to hear. Wesker didn't care what Chris _preferred_. So, he told him information that was the equivalent of a short film entailing why someone should stop eating anything but the occasional Saltine to fend off death. Thankfully, after his years with S.T.A.R.S and the B.S.A.A, Chris couldn't be fazed by those sorts of things. Something about shooting people-eating zombies through the head and fighting through parasite infested masses throughout the years made dirty poultry not look so bad.

However, the conversation did get Wesker to start making toast in the morning. So, really, Chris had won and hadn't said more than, "Do you _ever _fucking eat?" And for that he found a bit of a personal victory.

This morning wasn't any different than one of the more "tolerable" ones, though arguably something did feel a bit different when he went into the kitchen to start cooking. As the pan heated up, the brunette turned to lean against the stove and cross his arms, his eyes fixated on Wesker who did little more than flick his wrist to turn the page of his paper. The Comics, Sports, and front page feature articles had been neatly folded and set aside while he fixated reflective glass on Business and the more serious articles. He probably noticed the eyes that were so intently fixated on him, but ignored them with gestures of page turning, sipping coffee, or eating toast (which had the slightest amount of strawberry jam on it).

Nothing was different.

So why did something _feel _different?

"Do you intend on actually preparing something for breakfast or was turning on the stove simply your way wasting valuable resources, Chris?" Wesker's voice made him jump through the general silence of the kitchen. He turned around, noticing that the "surface heating" light had flickered off, making the man's vocalization somewhat necessary. Though that didn't make it any less unexpected and didn't make Chris feel like any less of an _ass _considering he had been the one standing there staring.

"Shut up," he said, pretending to yawn as if that added some sort of excuse for his negligence. Wesker didn't even grunt in response and the kitchen settled, once again, into a quiet state of familiarity as Chris cooked his eggs.

A small part of him supposed that the paranoia was settling in just because this entire situation had started to seem so normal. Eating breakfast around - he didn't say 'with' because to him eating 'with' someone implied conversation or at least _liking _each other - Wesker had become everyday. Not that he particularly wanted to go back to the feeling of hypersensitivity, that the other was going to just spring from his chair and attack him. Those days he'd hardly felt like he'd slept at all, let alone waking up to face one of the deadliest threats he'd ever faced just sitting in his kitchen.

The fact that it all suddenly seemed so normal was a bit..._disturbing_. Was he suppose to feel normal eating breakfast around Wesker? Maybe he had some time, back when the other was human. Back when they were both members of S.T.A.R.S. Before the other's eyes glowed from behind those sunglasses and he could be in a different room from where he was sitting in the duration of time it took Chris to blink. Maybe back then he had felt okay with all of this, with just the idea of this working out and making _sense_. But now? Well, now _wasn't _then.

And all of this was starting to feel a little _too_ comfortable. Or, rather, it had been feeling too comfortable and he was finally starting to catch on. No longer going through life just treating it like this was something _normal_. Eating breakfast with Albert Wesker was not _normal_. Especially not being Chris Redfield, the man that had muddled around in his plans for years. They couldn't stand each other, _dammit_, so how the hell could they eat breakfast together without his M9 shoved against Wesker's ribcage and hands around his throat? Hands that would smell and feel like leather because the guy never seemed to take those_ gloves _off either.

By the time he was sitting down at the table, Wesker had finished the pathetic little thing he called a meal and was near the last page of his paper. Chris pulled over the discarded front page, compulsively checking for anything that sounded like a cover-up or possible B.O.W sighting. It had become habit after all the years dealing with various biological outbreaks.

As he came to the conclusion there was nothing there to worry about and was sitting back to start eating, he found himself relating that to his present situation. That maybe things had simply calmed down to the point that he didn't _need _to worry about Wesker trying to kill him at every turn. Uroboros was out of the picture and much of Umbrella's other facilities, as well as the one Wesker himself had been working from, had been demolished by the BSAA. Certainly the blonde was still a threat, but without plans of global satur-_domination_ milling around between them he didn't really have much of a reason to try to kill Chris so relentlessly. They weren't getting in the _way _of each other right now.

And not getting in the way of each other somehow lead to them eating breakfast together like two people able to tolerate each other's presence. How that worked exactly was a part of the figure that he hadn't completely worked out yet, but some part of him knew it made sense. It was hard to see Wesker as the type to "accept defeat" and Chris knew that with him alive, there would inevitably be _something_. But it wasn't right _now_. In the end, just that little fact made all of this seem more logical.

Once about halfway through the plate of eggs in front of him, he stood up and migrated over to the fridge. He pulled free an almost finished carton of orange juice and poured the remaining contents into a glass, downing a good gulp of it between the fridge and the trash. Wesker took the opportunity to stand up and deposit his own dishes into the sink, carefully avoiding even brushing against Chris in the brief time they were close. It was a small gesture, nothing over-played, and Chris wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't glanced over to see Wesker's arm move away from him with something a little more obvious than subconscious reaction. Some things either wouldn't change or would take a while to show, he figured, and made his way back over to the table.

He pulled over the sports section just as Wesker walked behind him, juice in one hand, and felt his muscles tense at the slight chuckle he heard. It made his stomach clench and something along the back of his head tingle, like he was expecting to feel a gun pressed to it. He glanced over his shoulder just as the blonde came into view, a very unpleasant smile on his face that did nothing to hide the fact that his chuckle had become something closer to outright laughter. Chris was overtaken with the urge to lunge at him, but it was purely instinct and had little to do with actual rage. _What _did he have to be mad at?

"What's so funny?" He sounded angry, realizing that the tone fit any conversation with Wesker far more than any other he had attempted since this breakfast thing started. When the other didn't respond and just started laughing harder, Chris felt his face contort and his lips curve into a human-esque snarl, "If you're just messing with me, you bastard, I'll-"

It wasn't words that silenced Chris so much as the sound of leather moving through air as the blonde swept up his long jacket and pulled it on. He was left sitting there waiting, because he could _feel_ Wesker's answer on the air and knew he didn't need to say anything more. As if to prove that point, he lifted the glass again and took another drink.

"I poisoned your orange juice."

Chris choked, spitting out what he'd taken into his mouth over the neatly folded papers on his kitchen table. He turned his wide eyes to the taller male, standing up and trying to completely ignore the way his heart was pounding. He swore he was already feeling symptoms, but he knew it was a figment. Mostly because Wesker wouldn't have given him something to kill him that _quickly_.

"_What_?" he demanded sharply, moving forward and nearly tripping over his chair, "Are you _serious_?"

"I'm a little disappointed that you have to ask, Chris," Wesker's laughter had died down to something he could contain in his voice completely, though none of his amusement had left him despite it.

"You can shove your disappointment, Wesker! Where the hell is the antidote?"

Wesker only smirked vaguely over his shoulder before passing through the doorway, leaving Chris furious but unable to move for some reason.

"And you thought breakfast would be easy."


End file.
